Chapter 24
Intentions were slippery things, planting themselves in one’s thoughts, seemingly firm and immovable, but when one tried to lay hold of them, they wriggled away. Hettie had meant to avail herself of the bedchamber only to freshen up. Charity might’ve been the one to do the majority of the work, but that hadn’t left Hettie untouched by the hours of strain and sleep deprivation.
A few dabs of the warm washcloth had been enough to convince her to sit on the edge of the bed. Her arms were so very tired, and it eased some of the strain. She closed her eyes as she wiped at her face and neck, and she couldn’t help but notice just how comfortable the bed was. She just needed a moment. That was all.
While so many others reveled in their slumber, Hettie often wished it wasn’t a necessary part of life. It was difficult to take much pleasure in the act when falling to sleep took effort. If she managed her nighttime routine properly, it was possible to slip off into sleep within thirty minutes or perhaps an hour. To drift off immediately was such a foreign concept that Hettie hadn’t thought it possible when she rested her head against the pillow.
Just a few minutes to relax, and she would be right as rain once more.
Hettie’s eyes jerked open to find the world suddenly cloaked in darkness, as the afternoon sun had vanished from sight. If not for the lit fire, it would’ve been difficult for her to find her way around the room. Saints above, her foggy thoughts couldn’t sort out what had happened, other than to acknowledge that time must’ve passed in that blink.
Stretching her back, she used the faint light from the fireplace to locate her slippers once more and find the door handle. The house felt empty, for only the faint sound of voices broke the silence, though she knew there must be others about. Following it back to the sitting room, she stopped outside Charity’s lying-in chamber. The door was cracked just enough for her to hear the people inside, and Hettie paused at the sound of her name.
“I do not care what you think of Miss Stillwell. She’s abominable,” murmured Mrs. Baxter, though her tone shifted as she cooed at baby Bridget.
“Enough, Camilla,” replied Charity with a sigh. “You’ve already spoken at length—”
“But can you believe her audacity? To ban me from this dear child’s birth? To leave you without aid or companionship throughout your ordeal?” The chair creaked as Mrs. Baxter rocked the child. “And you will never believe what she said to me!”
“I cannot imagine.”
“When I returned to the library after everything was concluded, I found her there with a tea tray, and she looked at me and said, ‘Would you care for milk and sugar?’” Mrs. Baxter spoke those words in a haughty mimicry, ending with a disgusted huff of annoyance as though that was the worst thing imaginable.
“The monster. How dare she offer you a bit of refreshment,” replied Charity in a monotone.
Mrs. Baxter scoffed. “She is playing hostess as though she has any right to do so. Making herself quite at home where she does not belong.”
“As I am the closest thing to a hostess this household has, and I was unavailable to see to your comfort, I think it was very kind of her to do what she can to assist the family.” Charity paused and added, “Frankly, I would love for someone to make me tea with a heaping dose of milk and sugar.”
“I wouldn’t care for any amount of tea if it was made by such a person,” replied Mrs. Baxter with a scoff. “I cannot believe Father has had his head turned by such a woman. I knew he lacked common sense, but surely even he should know better than to set his sights on Miss Stillwell.”
That was enough to have Hettie turning away. There was no good to be had in the conversation, and fetching Charity the drink she desired would be of far more assistance.
But Biddie’s cries stopped Hettie in her place; the sound was so wonderful and welcome that she couldn’t help but marvel at the child’s healthy lungs. And Biddie’s strong cries were like those of a warrior, ensuring the healthy babe wouldn’t waste away in the coming days. It was too soon to feel entirely at peace, but Hettie sent a silent prayer of gratitude heavenward; every time mother and babe made it through the ordeal was worthy of celebration.
“Really, Charity.”
Mrs. Baxter’s tone had Hettie halting in place once more, for it held far too much chastisement to be ignored. Having heard Mrs. Baxter wax poetic about what Charity ought to do once the ordeal was complete, Hettie felt more than a small sense of dread at those two words. Especially when they were preceded by Biddie’s sudden silence.
“It is one thing for you to hire a midwife rather than a proper physician, but to go without a wet nurse is unacceptable,” said Mrs. Baxter.
Hettie knew that tone all too well, for she’d heard it whenever mothers gathered to speak about children; the world always had those who set themselves above others, whether through family ties, finances, profession, virtuousness, appearances, or even motherhood.
Whether it was before, during, or after the birth, those venerable women never did anything of value to assist their sisters in arms, preferring to dole out “kindly” meant advice. They possessed the answers to every question and exacted judgments upon unwitting victims, convinced that all children were identical and that their philosophies concerning the rearing of children were the only valid method to rear perfect offspring—never mind that theirs were often little terrors whose greatest achievements in life were to become replicas of their pompous parents.
Hettie refused to step into another battle, but neither could she move away as Mrs. Baxter continued to speak.
“It is so crass to feed one’s child oneself. I shudder to think what your mother would say if she saw you now,” said Mrs. Baxter with a falsely bright laugh. “Besides, a mother’s milk is tainted from the ordeal, and it is far better for baby to have a wet nurse during the first few weeks. To say nothing of the fact that it slows your ability to heal. I would hate for either of you to be harmed—”
“It is a moot point, Camilla. I cannot afford a wet nurse.”
“Nonsense,” replied Mrs. Baxter in a dismissive tone. “You can borrow the money. Why else does credit exist?”
The more time she spent with Charity, the more Hettie saw Baxter in the lady, and never was that more evident when she responded with far more patience than Hettie could’ve mustered in such a moment.
“I thank you for the advice, but Thomas makes enough to support us in our modest lifestyle. I have no interest in living beyond our means—”
“You could simply offer the woman room and board in exchange for her nursing the baby—though I think it is far better to send the child to a family in the country until the babe is weaned. My children benefited greatly from it. In fact, I just received a letter from Wesley’s caretakers, and he is thriving. Once he is weaned, he’ll return to the family all the happier and healthier for his time in the country. Surely your child’s health is more important than a few pounds—”
